


Summer of '81

by snapslikethis



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Marauders Era - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Tattoo Shop AU, first wizarding war, not going to hogwarts au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapslikethis/pseuds/snapslikethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her mother’s passing, Lily returns to her childhood hometown and opens a tattoo shop. James and his mates, working for the Order, are glad to find a small, nondescript town where they can lay low. When he passes by her shop, however, an old memory resurfaces, and they both realize this might not be as simple as they’d intended. Tattoo shop AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer of '81

\- - - Hindsight (James) - - -

It started with a Niffler.

Or so James tells his mates. His girlfriend too. They’ve retired from his parents’ house to the flat, and they’re cozy, lounging in chairs and the sofa. They’re warm in jumpers and off one of Pete’s drink concoctions that no one is brave (or stupid) enough to question the specifics of.

They drink, and they laugh, and it’s Christmas, right? They reminisce about the good things, because that’s easier.

When James tells them it started with the Niffler, Remus clicks his tongue. And when James asks what the tongue clicking is for, Remus nods to Lily and says  _he_  reckons it started with her smile—on cue, she smiles—as that’s how James ended up with the bloody tat in the first place.

Peter rolls his eyes at them both, insisting it started with the bottle of liquor, and—with a pointed look to Sirius—the shit Refilling Charm placed upon it.

Sirius, slapping Pete on the back, points out it was probably the Chinese they started forty-five minutes before they ever uncapped the bloody bottle.

They’re all wrong, his mates, but that’s not the point.

\- - - Niffler pt. 1 - - -

The point: It’s three days post-moon, so they can’t go out, but it’s a bloody Friday and they’re all—for once—off-mission. So, y’know, they’ve got to do  _something_. Moony’s exhausted as fuck, and Padfoot’s bored as fuck, and Pete’s hungry as fuck, and James is sick as fuck of his mates’ collective whining.

When Pete mentions Chinese, James jumps at the chance to get out of the flat; he shakes off their offers to join him.

Much as he wants to, he can’t blame them for being tetchy bastards. He’s on edge himself, isn’t he? It’s been a hell of a week, or three, or nine, and Dearborn is missing, and—he can’t blame them at all.

They’d let a flat for the summer. Longer, if things stay quiet, or shorter—more likely—if things go to shit.

Working for the Order, things often go to shit. But this nondescript, rundown Muggle town, while boring as fuck, affords them a sense of security they haven’t enjoyed in months.

He’s had worse.

He swings by the corner grocer for provisions of the alcoholic variety—his mates aren’t going to be anyless bloody needy when he returns, are they? And, thinking of Dearborn, they could use a drink. Or three. Or seven. Whatever.

Predictably, he bypasses the alley shortcut in favor of the longer route. Nicer views, and all that.

And he slows, just enough to see if she’s there. When her dark red hair flashes in his peripheral, he stops short, risks a proper glance. She’s sat, back turned to him, palming some bloke’s bicep.

It’s irrational, sure, but James indulges in a twinge of jealousy before adjusting the bags in his arms and moving on.

\- - - Hindsight (Lily) - - -

He says it started with the Niffler; he’s dead wrong. Which is…typical, isn’t it?

He looks so put out at her declaration that she kisses his cheek. He’s entire too smug about it, though, so when he leans in for another, she shoves him away.

For her, it nearly  _ended_ with the Niffler, and she tells him this. His mates laugh, and Pete mimes pulling down his pants, and Remus mimes sicking-up, and Sirius tips his beer to her in toast.

She laughs, marveling at how fond she is over all of them, given the relatively short time they’ve known each other. This, Christmas with James, his friends— _her friends_ , she reminds herself—takes the sting off what she’s missing today. She watches the levitating ornaments.

Magic, isn’t it?

James ducks his head, embarrassed at his mates, and ruffs his hair.

There,  _that_.

She points to James.  _That’s_  where it began for her, she tells him—them—a month before the Niffler.

The egg.

May.

\- - - Over Easy - - -

It’s not natural, ever, but it’s especially unnatural in the middle of bloody  _May_.

Lily’s suffering through one of those fringe plastered to the forehead, thighs plastered to the vinyl seat, children plastered to any water deeper than two inches type afternoons. Too miserable even to smoke, and that’s saying something.

She shouldn’t be open—who wants a tattoo at three on a bloody Tuesday?

Except, after monthsof Council bullshit, she’s finally gotten their approval to repurpose the old beauty shop, so she ought to keep regular hours. Or something. And, after having spent most of her inheritance on equipment, the potential for a few pounds of income, however slim, keeps the door propped open and her legs propped up on her counter.

Besides flirting with the grocer’s son for another discount ice lolly, what else does she have to do?

She’d returned, expecting things to be different, only to encounter the same dodgy pubs, damned mill, stinky river. Same people, too, a few who’d even recognized her—old Mrs. Bradley, for one, who had pretended not to be shocked by her piercings and invited her for tea. Lily hadn’t yet taken her up on it.

Though the houses seemed shabbier, Lily couldn’t work out if they’d always been that way, or if she’d changed enough to notice, or what.

Because she  _had_  changed. Losing her father had changed her then; the loss of her mother, now. Why else would she have fled Ireland and returned here, after a decade away? Same as her Mum had done after her dad had passed, but in reverse.

Full circle.  _Something_.

Knowing she was a witch and not being able to properly integrate into that society has changed her, but that’s an entirely different matter, isn’t it? She brushes it aside, furiously sticking her needle into her ‘suck cock’ embroidery. She pricks her finger. Fucking fitting.

Fitting, too, that she’s thinking about  _that_ , when hesaunters by.

Jogs by, actually.

She hears him before she sees him.

A shout cuts through the oppressive quiet, drawing her attention from her needlework. The shout is followed by a hearty burst of laughter, then the slapping of trainers against pavement. Next moment, he jogs into view.

He’s an untidy mess of a boy—all angles, obscene hair, criminally tall. He looks familiar, though he’s far too posh for a Cokeworth boy. She squints, trying to place him.

His three companions—all boys around his age, and hers—catch up to him in short order. Together, they make a little movie in front of her shop’s picture window: the other dark-haired boy—too pretty to be allowed, that one—tosses him— _Hair_ —something small, which he easily catches. They make a game of keep away, passing it back and forth over their friend’s head. Except the friend—Shorty, Lily names him—doesn’t seem at all keen on the idea.

Her storefront catches Hair’s attention, and he stops playing to eye both Lily and her shop with interest. He flashes her an easy grin, more smirk than smile. 

A lad through and through, isn’t he?

She rolls her eyes, and then she laughs, really laughs, because—and it’s a fucking thing of beauty to watch: the object he’s been tossing back and forth—an egg, turns out—crashes and cracks against Hair’s head.

Bits of yolk fleck her window. It’s poetry.

He grimaces and lifts his hand to his hair, inspecting the damage. As he does this, Lily feels the air grow solid, stiff, like a well-placed anti-Apparition Ward, because she places him. Or rather, she remembers the place.

She hasn’t returned to Diagon Alley. She’s heard the rumors, after all, and she doesn’t have a death wish. Yet she’s sure she’s seen that gesture before.

Ollivander’s.

A Gryffindor, like his dad.

She scours the memory for more details—a name, anything—but the bit about Gryffindor is all she gets.

The fourth companion, a shabby boy—the living embodiment of Cokeworth—brings her back to the present. He taps on the eggy window, smiling apologetically, and shoves his friends on.

Hair—no,  _Egg_ —moves, reluctantly, though not before a sidelong, puzzled look of his own.

\- - - Niffler pt. 2 - - -

They blame his being late on the window. On  _her_. And it isn’t entirely true, but it’s true enough, isn’t it? They wouldn’t believe the truth, anyway, so he lets their teasing pass unchallenged.

As delicious as their takeaway tastes, the drink proves better.

And for a bloke who likes his liquor so much, Sirius is notoriously  _shit_ at Refilling Charms. James sees it happening, lets it. Worse case, James’ll run out and get more.

Halfway through the bottle, Peter dares James to get a tat.

Peter  _often_ dares him lately, and James always declines, even if it means a chance to chat up the redhead. Because, well—Muggle tattoos are mad wicked, aren’t they? Needles, especially mechanical needles that move faster than he can see, sound like his idea of a Boggart.

 

Y’know, if his Boggart wasn’t already a flesh-eating slug.

So. No tattoos.

Except, when Peter dares him to get a Niffler, it’s ludicrous. James can _not_ stop laughing.

Moony, giggling hysterically, tells him she’ll take good, bloody well care of him, he stares through her window and gapes at her tits often enough. An especially unMoonyish thing to say, sure, but he’s drunk and it’s three days post-moon, so, whatever.

Sirius chimes in, tells him he’d do well to get it on his arse, because he’d be an arse to begin with if he ever actually balls up enough to speak with her.

Who could possibly back down from  _that_?

 

James can, and does, telling Lupin if he wants to get a unicorn, and Pettigrew wants to get a dragon, and Black wants to get a hippogriff, thenhe’ll happily join them. Until then, they can piss off, yeah?

His mates shut up, then Peter swigs the last of the liquor.

\- - - Scrambled - - -

After that, he’s everywhere. She finds herself abandoning her half-full trolly at Tesco, hiding behind her popcorn at the cinema. And at the laundrette, at three in the bloody morning, he walks in with Pretty Boy. She ducks out the back entrance with her sopping clothes in hand.

Why she’s avoiding him, she can’t parse, except—if she’s wrong, it’s definitely embarrassing, and if she’s right, it’s potentially dangerous.

He’s always with his mates. They rove around town in a bloody pack, like they’re the uncrowned kings of Cokeworth. A hoodlum gang, Dursley would call them. She never sees them fucking around, exactly, but they seem perpetually on the brink of Trouble, or in the midst of it, or like they’ve just gotten away with it.

The pranks, for example. Benevolent pranks. Like, chaotic good or something.

Last Wednesday, see, at 2:46 a-fucking-m, Lily, unable to sleep, was hanging out her window to watch the stars. And, yes, to smoke, but whatever. It’s for naught—the stars. They’d suit her melancholy just fine, but it’s all clouds, so fuck that, yeah? Anyway, she’d heard a laugh, saw four shadows sneaking around the square, just down the road. She wasn’t  _entirely_  surprised when, next morning, everyone was in a lather about the town fountain, overflowing with purple bubbles.

Thing was, that fountain had been closed years before—severe cracks, and no budget to fix them. How could it have been repaired so quickly, and without anyone knowing? It would cost something to flush the pipes, yes, but nothing to what it would’ve been to repair the damn thing in the first place.

The pipes are flushed, and suddenly the square has an operational fountain.

And two weeks before  _that_ , all the downtown street signs had been switched around. It was so masterfully done—no one had realized it until midday. And the signs…curious, but they’d all been scrubbed up, gleaming, brand bloody new; none of them had actually been stolen. Still, it took three days to set them all right.

 

Was it them? She couldn’t say, but who  _else_ would it have been?

 

Her final straw is Egg raiding the ice lollies—her ice lollies—at  _her_  beloved corner grocer.

 

Is  _he_  stalking  _her_? No. They’ve exchanged a few glances, but he doesn’t seem any more interested in confronting her than she is him.

Then: June, Friday. One of the few nights she can count on more than two customers. She looks up from Sweaty McSweaterson’s nasty bicep and sees Egg’s familiar black mop pass by in her mirror—a relic from the beauty shop that she hadn’t been arsed to take down—Chinese in hand. She watches him pause.

He never lingers, and he never comes in, but he  _always_ bloody glances.

\- - - Niffler pt. 3 - - -

They’ve been teasing him about her for a fucking month, hadn’t they?

And he really, truly deserves it. He’s a pathetic ponce, stealing glances in the window like a bloody coward. What could he possibly say to her though? Excuse me, Miss, are you by chance a witch, and did we meet in a London shop ten years ago, and I watched you get your wand, but you never came to our magic school?

He doesn’t fucking  _think_ so.

So he goes for the alcohol, and on his way back, being the pathetic twat that he is, he skips the alley and goes the long way home. He resolves not to glance, except, when he breaks down and looks, she’s waiting for him.

She taps on the window, grinning like a madwoman, beckoning him inside.

And is he a bloody Gryffindor, or what?

\- - - - -

Sweaty McSweaterson is gone,  _finally_ , and she’s counted the till. A good night, all considered, when Egg walks by, third time in one night. And she knows he’ll be back by, and what else does she have to do?

He startles when she knocks, and the way ruffs his hair, all flustered? Fuck her sideways.

Before she can stop herself, she’s beckoning him inside.

\- - - - -

He stands there like an arse, gaping, and a bit lopsided, and what does he know?

Her smile is lopsided, too.

\- - - - -

It’s  _so_  goddamn awkward.

What was her plan, exactly? Hey, mate, d’you by chance happen to be a wizard? You’ve a fantastic smile.

He’s tipsy—not full arse over elbow, but he has that sway about him, and his grin is too sloppy and warm to be entirely natural. She could play it off, the asking, but there’s the Secrecy Statute, and the war, and—here’s the crux—she doesn’t know what side he’s on.

Without warning, he sets down his bag, and then asks her for a tattoo while he unzips his trousers.

The questions slip from her mind.

\- - - - -

So, he ends up with a Niffler on his shoulder.

Oh, he doesn’t  _tell_ her it’s a Niffler. He might be reckless and half-pissed, yeah, but he’s not so far gone that he’d risk dementors over a fantastic smile.  _Even_  fantastic smiles that twist his stomach more than those Muggle pretzels Moony is overly fond of.

 

He draws a quick sketch for her, but that doesn’t work—at  _all._

\- - - - -

A Niffler. A bloody fucking Niffler.

So he’s a wizard after all.

She hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. She’d gotten her letter, her wand, but her dad had died, and—

To compensate, her Mother had gotten a referral from the teacher who’d come to visit them, and Lily had attended magic class four evenings each week at a small provincial school. So top secret, even her grandmother hadn’t realized.

It—the school—hadn’t been as thorough, so she’s never seen magical creatures in person. She’s seen the diagrams, though, and she  _knows_  what a fucking Niffler is.

 

Whether he’s  _the_  wizard doesn’t matter, because what the ever loving fuck?

A Niffler.

She convinces him to get the tattoo on his shoulder instead of his arse. And he resists, he  _really_ resists, trying to show her his arse. And—it’s a nice fucking arse, right? She can see that through his pants.

It’d be a bloody shame to ruin it.

However much he might deserve it, wandering into a tattoo shop tipsy and chatting up the owner, her conscience won’t permit an arse tattoo. Thing is, she needs the cash too badly to just send him on his way.

Reluctantly, he zips up and whips his shirt off. With a flourish, because he’s an arse. An arse with a nice arse and some  _very_  nice arms.

He—Potter, she learns quickly enough—is a chatty sodding mess. Cute, hilarious, but a fucking disaster of a lad.

\- - - - -

She’s not  _her—_ wand girl. She would know what a fucking Niffler is, for one, and she absolutely doesn’t. He has to help her sketch it out.

They sort it, finally, and he settles into the chair, determined not to wince as she starts up the machine.

He winces rather a lot, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She doesn’t seem to mind alot of things, though that might be because he’s a paying customer. Who knows.

 

She’s just as funny as she is pretty. Unfair, that, and ridiculous.

A half hour in, his fucking mates—twats, all of them—send Pete down to find him. And find James he does, leers through the window, miming them fucking when the redhead isn’t looking.

James waves at him to go the fuck away. He does, and James breathes a sigh of relief. As much as he can, anyway, with her digging a goddamn mechanical needle in his arm.

Of course, the bastard—Wormy, not  _her—_ comes strolling by twenty minutes later, all casual, with Padfoot, no less, dragging a slouching Remus between them.

They pass by every few minutes, because they are traitorous fucking twats, the lot of them.

 _Fuck_ , she’s pretty.

 

Twats.

\- - - - -

The propositions, plural?

Those, she can overlook. Comes with the territory, unfortunately, though a light castration threat usually brings chatty or handsy blokes in line. It’s not necessary here—he’s not being creepy. His lines are awful, but they’re delivered in good humor, more to amuse her than anything.

At least she bloody hopes so, because they are really—like, _really_ —terrible.

The sweat, too, she can overlook. He’s nervous, and she’s a pretty girl with her hands all over his arm. He’s clearly terrified.

Same with the tears she pretends aren’t prickling at the corners of his eyes. He isn’t blubbering, or even wincing too terribly badly. She’s dealt with worse.

The vomit, however? Too fucking much.

She finishes, finally, and hands him the mirror.  A textbook Niffler, which is what he’d requested, and a damn sight better than  _his_  mess of a sketch. It’s no less than he deserves. Whether the gravity of the situation—a Niffler permanently tattooed on his shoulder—or whatever alcohol he’d consumed, combined with his dinner, she doesn’t know.

He turns green. It isn’t her fucking problem.

Except, it is  _exactly_  her fucking problem, because he vomits all over her bloody chair, and her floor, and her favorite shoes.

And his mates—pissed themselves, far more pissed than Potter—dissolve into hysterics outside her window. She waves them in as she wraps up the tattoo, sees that Pretty Boy has enough tattoos to handle aftercare, and kindly orders them to get their mate the fuck out of her shop.

\- - - Something Brewing - - -

The details are fuzzy for him, even four days later.

Despite what Padfoot says, he’s cert he didn’t cry. He doesn’t doubt he hit on her, as Peter gleefully informs him. Moony still can’t believe he sicked-up on her.

James can’t believe he has a fucking Niffler tattoo.

He goes to apologize. If her warm welcome is any indication, he’d  _definitely_ hit on her.

“Get the fuck out of my shop, Potter—”

She brandishes her needlework at him, managing to look more formidable than Longbottom’s mum. He steps forward.

“I—”

“Did you manage to get it infected already?”

“ _No_ , I—”

“I won’t remove it, so don’t bother asking.”

 _He_ could remove it, if it came to that. Ugly as it is, it reminds him of her, and that makes him a ponce, sure, but— “I came to apologize for being an arse.”

As she considers him, he’s surprised so much coolness can radiate from her when it’s so bloody hot outside. At length, she asks him what specifically he is here to apologize for.

“Erm, mooning you?”

She nods. Against his better judgment, he leans forward, resting a hand on her counter.

“And hitting on me?” she asks.

He grins. “Not that bit, no, though I’d have used better lines, if I’d have had my wits about me.”

“If you hadn’t been piss drunk, you mean.”

His smile vanishes. “Well, yeah…”

“They wouldn’t have worked.”

This is not going well. His hand twitches, itching to jump to his hair, but he’s still got the box hidden behind his back.

“Why are you here, really, Potter?”

“I said—to apologize. A-and, to thank you—for, er, saving my arse.”  _She_  grins, and he’s bolstered. “Literally saving my arse. And I am sorry about the sick-up. And your shoes, and the general principle of the thing. I owe you one.”

“Or twenty.”

“Oi, and for not tipping you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, have a good day, then.” She returns to her embroidery, dismissing him.

“No—there’s  _more_ ,” he insists.

She doesn’t look up, but she pauses mid-stitch, so he knows she’s listening.

“You didn’t think I’d just use words, would you? What good would that do?” He fishes two twenty pound notes out of his pocket and sets them on the counter— _that_  gets her attention. “Your tip, and some provisions.” He produces a box of half-melted ice lollies. “It’s supposed to be hot as bullocks all week, yeah?”

She makes no move to take them, so he sets them awkwardly on the counter.

“All right—well, um,” he fixes his hair. “See you ’round.”

\- - - - -

Bloody ice lollies.

He’s halfway out the door before she calls him back.

“Evans.”

He whips around.

“I wouldn’t tell you my name the other night, yeah?” she explains. “It’s Evans.”

“Evans, what?”

She grins. “Just Evans.”

“All right.” He shoots her that bloody lopsided grin that made her knees a bit jelly-like, the bastard. “I’m James.”

“I remember.”

“Well, Just Evans, see you ’round, yeah?”

Lily nods. Potter flashes her a cocky three-fingered salute and marches out the door.

They’re delicious, the lollies.

She ought to throw them away on principle, but he’s right—it’s the hottest fucking June in ages, so she shoves them in the icebox. She pockets the twenties, too, intent on replacing her shoes.

Thing is, as she idly sucks on a grape lolly hours later, another idea takes hold. She turns it over in her head for the rest of the evening.

Next morning, Lily hasn’t slept, but she has made up her mind. She’s considered it for at least twelve hours, so it’s not rash or impulsive, is it? Reckless, yes, but her mother isn’t here to tell her otherwise.

She doesn’t have anything like the proper clothing,

She remembers the old tavern, nods at the barman like she knows what she’s doing, only to come up short in the courtyard behind. Five minutes later, she’s on the verge of leaving, flustered, when a kindly ginger witch takes pity and helps her with the bricks. And if that woman—pregnant, with three young boys in tow—has just braved Diagon Alley, Lily certainly can.

Right?

After a deep steadying breath—or three, and maybe a cig for good measure—she steps back into the Wizarding world.

Underwhelming. It’s all terribly underwhelming. Eerily empty, far removed from the bustling, cheery street she’s long-romanticized in her memories, and far closer—with its boarded-up shops—to Cokeworth than she cares to admit. Far, also, from the Death Eater on every corner scenario she’d been envisioning.

Still, no one lingers.

And still, she forges ahead, forfeiting Potter’s tip to a Gringott’s goblin in exchange for a small bag of wizarding coins.

She wanders the alley, aimless, until inspiration strikes in an old cauldron sitting in the window of the used equipment shop. Aside from the odd potion, she hasn’t tackled any advanced potions work. Those she  _had_  brewed had been class projects—no one had their own equipment, and the time and budget didn’t allow for such luxuries—but she’d loved the O.W.L. level coursework. More importantly, she’d excelled at it.

She leaves the Alley laden with a cauldron, an equally tarnished set of scales, a N.E.W.T. level book, and a basic stock of ingredients the kind old apothecary had helped her sort.

They’re shabby, but they’re hers. She ruins three scouring pads scraping grime out of the cauldron bottom, and she calls the tarnish on the scales vintage charm.

Anyway, everything she owns, save her work equipment downstairs, is a little old and tarnished. So, it suits. Something.

Two weeks later, it will  _not_  stop bloody raining. Lily’s worked through her box of ice lollies and a third of the way through the advanced potions book.

She studies her book surreptitiously between clients. Affordable, and reliable, and  _good_ , she’s quickly become a favorite for the local kids, now that they’re out of school—piercings, mostly, and band tattoos they’ll regret in a few years.

Stupid, the lot of them, but they pay for her potions ingredients.

Potter is noticeably absent—she doesn’t see him on the streets, in her launderette, anywhere. She wonders if they’ve left, then chastises herself for wondering at all. Until she sees Short Stuff wandering in the park, a lost puppy, eating a sandwich on a bench; she smiles to herself as she flips her sign to ‘closed.’

Lily’s careful about brewing—her flat is above her shop, and if a potion goes rancid, all the Vanishing Charms in the world can’t clear the stench—and works in the cool, quite middle of the night hours.

Something about it takes the edge off the loneliness that likes to creep in and choke her.

She’d never before considered N.E.W.T.s as an attainable goal, but this is N.E.W.T. level coursework, isn’t it? And so far, she’s managed well enough. She’d only had to scrape her cauldron out four times. All right, maybe five, but she was distracted with the radio and missed a stir. Complete fluke.

It’s only potions, yes, and she’ll need to sort out loads of other subjects before she’s anything like qualified, and she doesn’t even know what she’d do, but  _still_.

Something like hope unfurls inside of her.


End file.
